


Nocturne in B major, Op. 9, No. 2

by drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark Will, Harpsichord Porn, M/M, fancy party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1522658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal gives Will a private lesson in expressing himself via his favorite instrument.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne in B major, Op. 9, No. 2

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt sent by m-amarone: "I've been enjoying your Hannibal scenarios so I thought I'd share one. This new darker Will is invited to another Hannibal dinner party and he makes sexy eye contact with their host as he eats EVERYTHING he is given. Then when everyone is mingling Hannibal or someone mentions the piano and Hannibal says he recalls Will had one at home & does he play, "it's been a while" Will would say before sitting down & blowing everyone away with a whimsical yet dark, foreboding tune. Hannibal's panties drop."
> 
> The Hannibal-ACCA website has permission to post this piece <3

He moves with intention, rather than reaction. Partygoers part before him, eager to watch the young man with the dangerous past and the delta blue eyes. There’s so many things to speculate about now - who he is, who he was, who they all thought he had become - and whispered murmurs ripple in his wake.

Their voices are like the wind at his back and he appears at ease amongst them. His still waters do not stir in their breeze, and he very nearly smiles as he is introduced to someone he’s never met, by someone he’ll never see again. His suit is tailored narrowly to his body, perfect black without a stray dog hair to be found on it, the shirt beneath it pressed to perfection under a pale evergreen tie.

Hannibal didn’t predict that Will would adapt to the game so readily, but he can’t help but feel a touch of pride at the transformation that has so exceeded his expectations yet again. He takes another sip of wine, returning the easy smile of the young socialite clad in ostentatious scarlet before him, so eager to make his acquaintance that she rests her hand on his arm as she laughs. The gossip of the District’s lofty ivory towers washes over him and he turns a brief glance back towards Will.

Through the minor aristocracy of the city their eyes meet, and Will plucks a passing hors d'oeuvre from a waiter’s tray. A thumb brushes his lips as he consumes it, and a cold glitter of curiosity appears in the barest raised brow that Hannibal returns. He imagines he sees Will smile, just a little, before turning back to the gallery curator at his elbow, eager to regale Will about his own trial.

Hannibal does not intervene. It’s an opportunity, an experiment to see how far he’s come along, and Hannibal circulates genially within the edges of Will’s orbit, but never closer. Without speaking to him, without interacting with him at all beyond the occasional passing gaze, he observes how through studied movements and focused awareness Will contains his anxieties and his stammers and his twitchy gaze, so much so that any hint of them seems merely charming - a quirk of character, rather than a flaw.

He would watch Will all evening, if he could, but he does his best not to. The duties of a host are never-ending, and he performs his own dance with practiced skill. It’s not until he hears the first notes of the harpsichord pluck through the din of voices that Hannibal is pulled back into his gravity, watching as Will gingerly touches the keys.

The woman in red who had been so eager to make Hannibal’s acquaintance looks on in practiced excitement. “Do you play?”

Will shakes his head genially. “I’m only familiar with the piano - much simpler - although I haven’t played in some time,” he admits. “This is a bit trickier.”

“How so?”

Will seats himself on the bench, fingers spreading over the keys. “In a piano, the hammer strikes down on the strings. You have to press hard against the keys to receive a response,” Will explains, avoiding Hannibal’s gaze as he listens to the soft-spoken man seated at his instrument. “Playing it is an aggressive act. One of dominance.”

“The harpsichord, by comparison, is more subtle. Because the mechanism plucks upward, playing this instrument requires a particular delicacy in how one approaches it. Your movements must be restrained, cautious, so as not to cause discordant vibrations. You have to coax, rather than demand.”

“Will you play something?” she asks, smiling towards Hannibal. “I’m sure the good doctor would allow it. A little live music for the party.”

Hannibal inclines his head towards Will. “It would be a pleasure to hear you play, after you’ve expressed such an eloquent understanding of these differences.”

“One shouldn’t assume that having an understanding of how to play means that one is capable of doing so,” Will responds, resting his fingers against the keys and straightening his back. “But with our host’s permission, I’ll gladly try.” He smiles, faintly. “No promises.”

Although Chopin surely never intended for his nocturne to be played on harpsichord, the sensations that Will draws from the instrument are felt from the first notes. The piece builds in rhythmic repetitions, each more ornate than the last, changed by the one before it. He’s not without an occasional misstep in timing but the piece swells in tempo, cresting forward in its melody with burgeoning passion, building on itself in its own eagerness for release until the final trills ring high and clear for several voluminous measures, and then fall away softly. The melody repeats itself again, quiet now, calm, and Will exhales a shaky breath as he removes his hands, pressing them against his thighs to steady their tremor.

The burst of applause from the gathered guests hides the soft sigh that escapes Hannibal’s lips without his permission, and he downs his wine in a single swallow.

“You played beautifully,” Hannibal remarks, and Will seems surprised by the unexpected compliment. The guests have long departed with the exception of Will, his coat removed and sleeves ruched indelicately to help Hannibal clear away the evidence of their evening. His Southern upbringing wouldn’t allow anything less.

Will shuts off the sink, freshly scrubbed, and towels his hands dry. “It can’t create the depth I’m used to. It’s missing pieces.”

“It is its own experience,” responds Hannibal. “You simply have to learn how to find the music within its existing nature, rather than as something it was never meant to be. Come, I’ll show you.”

He pulls the bench free for Will and lets him take a seat, allowing himself an unseen smile as he stands behind him. “Your observations were - of course - entirely accurate. One must think in terms of a gentle pluck, rather than a hard hammering - an upward lift of energy rather than a forceful downward one.”

Will hesitates, fingers on the keys. “It’s not going to be better,” he murmurs, chagrined. “I’ve had a few glasses of wine since then.”

“Perhaps that will allow you to better feel the depth you so desire,” muses Hannibal. “Now, begin.”

He starts the familiar nocturne again, Will’s brows furrowed in concentration as he finds his way over the notes. He is a little unsteady, the distance between keys still unfamiliar.

“Breathe,” instructs Hannibal softly, and rests his hands on Will’s shoulders. He feels a tension spark at the touch and guides his hands along his arms to his wrists. “Relax yourself. Upward movements, Will. Think about your intentions as you play. Do you mean to be a blunt force, striking against whatever’s in your path, or do you desire to be a finer tool, expressing yourself as you would actually like to be heard?” He feels his pulse begins to thrum beneath his fingers and leans low over Will as he plays, mouth warm against his neck, just above the starched collar of his shirt.

Will sighs a single note of laughter, blushing from the rise of his cheeks all the way down to an embarrassed warmth beneath Hannibal’s lips. “You’re making it very hard to focus on my intentions, doctor.”

“Mm,” Hannibal responds agreeably, eyes closed as the driving pleasure of Chopin builds in his ears. “The feeling is mutual. I intended to have a simple dinner party tonight, and instead I feel as though I must have been a deeply negligent host.”

Will frowns at himself as he misses a note, stubbornly playing through. “You’re always an excellent host.”

“I was terribly distracted.” A feral note like darkness at the edge of the woods gathers in his voice. The nocturne cuts short as Hannibal grasps his wrists and shoves him roughly forward, plants his hands against the body of the harpsichord, forcing him to stand. Hannibal bends low over him, greedy hands sliding beneath Will’s shirt and over his bare chest.

“Watching you tonight,” Hannibal murmurs against the back of Will’s neck, “and the way you’ve carried yourself. The way you spoke and played. It was unfair to expect me to continue polite conversation when you held all my attention.”

“I’m sorry,” breathes Will, gripping the fine wood of the instrument as Hannibal’s fingers unfasten his trousers. They’re tugged down roughly with his underwear and Will gasps. “Sh- should we -”

“No. Here.” Hannibal’s voice is rough with desire as he unzips himself and grasps his cock, sliding it between Will’s flushed cheeks and driving him forward over the harpsichord. He rocks hard against him, growling at the friction, and reaches around to press his fingers past Will’s parted lips. The younger man sucks obediently, fingers tightening in resistance to the urge to reach down and touch his own hardening length. His lips are pink and bright, damp with spit as Hannibal frees his hand from Will’s eager mouth and slides them inside him instead, pressing deep. Will gasps sharply, fingers curling, and watches Hannibal over his shoulder, tie pushed aside and hair fallen into his eyes.

“I should have you play for me now,” muses Hannibal as he withdraws his fingers, pressing the slick tip of his cock against Will’s hole. He enters him slowly, with intention, burying himself deep. Will’s gasps quickly become moans as Hannibal begins to move in him, building in tempo, and Will tries to rock back against him but Hannibal curls over him, arms wrapping around his chest to hold him in place and drive into him. His mouth is warm, possessive against the back of Will’s neck, and Will’s arms shake with the effort of keeping himself from collapsing forward with every thrust.

“Please,” Will breathes, and his cock bobs unattended, dripping onto the instrument beneath them. A stray note plucks from the harpsichord as Will’s thighs bump against it. Hannibal moans suddenly, explosively, and buries himself completely as his orgasm shudders violently free. Will exhales hard at the feeling of warmth spreading in him and his shaking arms nearly give way when Hannibal grabs his swollen length, gripping it tightly and stroking him in long, smooth pulls from base to tip, still buried inside him.

“In my hand,” Hannibal instructs in a hoarse whisper against Will’s ear, tugging tight up over the head and praising him softly as Will shakes, hips bucking, and coats Hannibal’s hand in pearls of come. He swallows hard and tries to catch his breath as Hannibal slowly pulls out of him, and he drops nearly to his knees, catching himself on the bench and sitting tenderly, dizzy.

Hannibal fastens his pants and pushes his hair back from his face, watching Will, rumpled and undone, a trembling flushed boy compared to the elegant man he’d watched all night. A pleasure deeper than even his release spreads through Hannibal’s chest and he offers out his sticky hand, brow raising incrementally.

Will’s tongue is warm, soft as he laps his come from Hannibal’s hand, lashes resting dark against his ruddy cheeks. Sweat-soaked curls of hair cling to his face and he catches a drop that slips from his tongue, sucking it from his own finger, then turning to each of Hannibal’s fingers in turn. Another soft purr of pleasure escapes Hannibal’s throat as he watches the debasement before him, a greedy hunger briefly satisfied, taking perverse joy in knowing he’ll soon feel it again.


End file.
